


you are not the last dream of my soul

by andrewminyards



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Flowers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Post-Canon, Recovery, Reincarnation, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Temporary Character Death, geralt coping and getting better basically, its very sad but it gets better, sort of? it's a happy ending, tiny bit of comfort? i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards
Summary: With every drop of tears that hits the ground, a flower blooms.*Flowers follow Geralt everywhere.A cornflower has bloomed from the bark of the tree, its petals nudging past his fingers as it sprouts from the trunk, hanging on by a thin stem, so fragile underneath his hands. A burst of bright, bright blue.It’s the exact shade of Jaskier’s eyes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 70
Kudos: 449
Collections: The Witcher Flash Fic Challenge #001





	you are not the last dream of my soul

**Author's Note:**

> character death is temporary, but this is mostly just geralt being sad lol (this is becoming a trend for me - temporary character death and lots of Sad)
> 
> ok so before reading this, bear in mind that this was written for a flashfic prompt so it's a bit of a mess, please excuse the quality of this since i banged out 6k in 24 hours
> 
> enjoy<3

There’s a choked sound behind Geralt, a sound that is undeniably Jaskier’s, but Geralt is engaged with his assailants, swords singing as he cuts them down one by one. He can’t spare his bard a glance, but he prays to whatever god there is out there that Jaskier is fine, that he’s safe.

His movements grow frantic, desperate to end the fight as quickly as possible - he _needs_ to get to Jaskier. Burying his sword in the last man’s chest, Geralt immediately looks around the clearing, searching desperately for Jaskier.

There is no one upright. Bodies lie strewn across the clearing, so bloodied and battered that they all seem indistinguishable, but - Jaskier. Where is Jaskier?

Jaskier should be standing, stepping over the bodies with a wrinkle in his nose as he makes his way over to Geralt, complaining about the stench of blood, but he’s not, and no one is upright, which means -

He can’t be. Geralt scans his eyes over the mass of bodies, fervently hoping that no, Jaskier had gained some common sense and fled, that he’s not among the bodies. But then his eyes catch on a flash of blue amongst the red and black, and Geralt’s heart stutters to a halt. 

Jaskier had been wearing a blue doublet today.

Geralt jumps over the bodies of his fallen opponents in the direction of where he’d seen the flash of blue and - it is, it’s Jaskier, body prone on the ground, the blue of his outfit drowned in crimson. His chest is moving, fast and shallow and he takes in pained, rapid breaths, and something in Geralt unclenches at the realisation that Jaskier is still alive.

Jaskier will be fine.

“Hey,” Jaskier whispers, coughing as Geralt kneels down next to him. Blood bubbles out of his trembling lips. “You - they’re dead?”

“All dead,” Geralt confirms. He casts his eyes over Jaskier, over numerous cuts and gashes that litter his limp body, and a lump grows in his throat. He needs to get his medical supplies, patch up Jaskier’s wounds, maybe call Yennefer to accelerate the healing, and Jaskier will be back to his normal self in no time, singing and dancing. “Let me -”

“Geralt,” Jaskier interrupts. There’s something heavy in his eyes, glazed as they are with pain, as he looks at Geralt. Slowly, he lifts a pale, bloody hand, grasping weakly at Geralt’s arm. “I’m not going to make it.”

Geralt shakes his head wildly even as an ache grows in his chest. “You’ll be fine, I just need to get Yen -”

“No, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice is weakening as he speaks, and Geralt tries to block out the sound of Jaskier’s heart slowing, thumpthump thump thump. Thump. “And you kn-know it too.”

No. There’s blood soaking into the mud around Jaskier, staining the grass red, but it’s fine, Jaskier will be _fine_. He’ll pull through. He always does.

“Yen,” Geralt says desperately, tugging at the small spot inside him reserved for his bond with Yennefer. He runs his hands over Jaskier’s body, cataloguing the injuries. They seem serious, but Jaskier will be _fine_. He _has_ to be. “Yen, please come.”

Perhaps it’s the utter distress in his voice that has Yennefer coming immediately, the familiar sensation of a portal swirling open behind him, but Geralt doesn’t turn around, doesn’t take his eyes from the bard in front of him, whose heartbeat is slowing, breaths becoming more laboured.

“Jaskier.” There’s a sobering finality in Yennefer’s voice as she moves to stand next to Geralt, skirts swaying in the gentle wind. She crouches down and places a hand over his heart, imbued with chaos, and Geralt watches, jaw tightening. After a moment, she twists to look at Geralt, a heaviness in her violet eyes.

“There’s nothing I can do.” Never has Yennefer sounded so grief-stricken, allowing sorrow to colour her voice. She drops her hand, clenching it into a tight fist. “I’m sorry.”

“No!” A cry rips out of Geralt’s throat, and he cradles Jaskier’s face in his hands. Tears drip onto Jaskier’s bloody face, chasing away the scarlet stains of blood as he presses his lips to Jaskier’s, whose breaths are becoming more and more shallow, his eyes losing their vibrance. Maybe if he breathes into Jaskier’s mouth, maybe if he tries hard enough, he’ll breathe in some life to Jaskier, and light will return to his eyes.

Jaskier’s breathing grows more shallow against his lips. 

“Geralt,” Yennefer murmurs, voice sadder than Geralt has ever heard. “Let me.”

It takes everything in him to drag his lips away from Jaskier’s, whose breathing grows more laboured with each passing second and Geralt raises his head slowly, eyes fixed on Jaskier’s face, never wavering. Jaskier’s dulling eyes lock with Geralt’s, the most beautiful blue that Geralt has ever seen, a soft smile on his lips as Yennefer cups her hands around his mouth.

Then - Geralt hears it, feels it when it happens, when Jaskier breathes out for the last time, the soft exhale captured in Yennefer’s palm, and Geralt howls in anguish, a pained, haunting sound that grates at his throat.

Grief batters at his heart, a crushing pain overtaking his body as it starts shaking violently. His gut twists into something hollow, an empty ache echoing into the void that Geralt feels his body has become. A pressure builds behind his eyes. Hands quivering, he tangles his fingers in Jaskier’s hair, crusty with dried blood, and lowers his face so that their cheeks are touching.

Jaskier’s skin is cool.

Dimly, he registers Yennefer lifting her hands from Jaskier’s mouth, cupped as if holding something precious, and Geralt watches, vision blurred as she sets her hands on the ground in front of him.

“Yen, what?” He rasps, and there’s something scratching at his throat as he speaks. He swallows. It doesn’t get much better.

“Look,” Yennefer whispers.

Where she had set her hands to the ground, something small and green pushes out, a bright spot in the midst of blood and violence. It reminds Geralt of Jaskier, the light to his darkness, and he lets out a choked sob, moisture spilling from his eyes, unbidden.

Tears slip down his cheeks, dripping to the ground, and Geralt watches in wonder as the small green bud unfurls bit by bit with each drop of tears that falls on it. A beautiful yellow emerges, a small figment of the sun gifted to earth, petals blooming as it opens up to greet the world.

A buttercup.

A wave rises in Geralt’s chest and he crumples in on himself, ugly sobs being torn out of him as he bends over Jaskier’s body, too still and too pale. Yennefer wraps a slender arm around his shaking form, and a moment later, the salty scent of her tears mingles with his own, enough to overpower the horrible, coppery stench of iron.

With every drop of tears that hits the ground, a flower blooms. 

A peony, a sunflower, a daffodil, a tulip, colour and life emerging in the middle of a broken battlefield. Geralt stares blankly at the body before him, drained of life and vibrancy and energy. Still and unmoving - something Jaskier never should be.

And yet.

A bluebell, a lily, a rose. Ripped away from this world too early, when he would’ve had decades ahead of him, still, a life that would have been filled with music and joy and laughter. A life by his side, limited as it would have been.

Torn away.

A daisy, an orchid, a rose. Geralt can’t move, can’t take his eyes from Jaskier. Any moments now, he thinks, Jaskier will spring up, eyes dancing and a smile playing on his lips, as he proclaims that this was all a harmless joke, a prank, _oh Geralt, so you truly do care for me!_

His body doesn’t move.

A field of colour fills Geralt’s vision, blurred as he blinks through the moisture still leaking from his eyes. A field of flowers surrounds Jaskier’s body, and it would almost look idyllic, if not for the blood drying on his clothes and the multiple lacerations that cover his body.

It makes a horrible mockery of Jaskier’s death, as the flowers teem with life and vivid colour, engulfing his lifeless face, stained with blood and Geralt’s tears. They curl around his body with their stems and leaves, their bright vitality almost obscuring the deathly image that is Jaskier’s corpse.

Geralt hates it.

Jaskier’s face is empty, completely devoid of life. Blue eyes, glazed over with the haze of death, are fixed on the canopy above them, blank and unseeing. His mouth is set in a peaceful smile, even in death, even as his blood drenches the earth underneath him.

It’s wrong. Jaskier shouldn’t look like this - Jaskier is a ray of sunshine, overflowing with life and love and laughter, not like - not dead.

He kneels in place for minutes, hours, tenderly cradling Jaskier’s cheek in his hand, feeling it grow cooler and cooler under his palm. When Yennefer leaves with red-rimmed eyes, he doesn’t acknowledge her soft, shaky farewell, keeping his gaze trained on the body before his, surrounded by endless blooms.

Something in him shatters.

Geralt goes through the motions for weeks, months, years. He’s unable to keep track of time anymore - without Jaskier by his side, making every day worthwhile, days and weeks blur together in an endless, monotonous repetition.

Everything is numb.

It might be several months, maybe a year, when something breaks through his dull, grey existence. Geralt is sitting on a bed in a rundown inn. There’s an absence at his side, a void that used to be filled with chatter and laughter and song, and the room is so, so empty.

He’s gazing at nothing, body still. He does that a lot, these days. What else is there for him to do, now that Jaskier’s gone? There is nothing he finds enjoyment in, anymore. So he sits on the bed, eyes fixed on the wall before him as the emptiness engulfs him.

Then a flash of yellow emerges in the periphery of his vision, and Geralt turns his head slightly to assess the disturbance.

A lone, small buttercup pokes through the floorboards by the bed. It’s stubbornly clinging to life between the creaky wooden floorboards, a burst of colour amongst the brown of the wood the surrounds it, and Geralt reaches out before his mind can catch up to his actions.

The petals are delicate under his large fingers, and he touches them softly, careful not to crush them. They’re soft, velvety, and it’s the most acute sensation Geralt has felt since - since. The haze which had been plaguing his mind since Jaskier’s death lifts a little, as if the bright yellow of the flower had pierced through the veil of his numb mind, and everything seems to regain a hint of clarity.

A buttercup. It’s growing, somehow, on the floor of his room, stubbornly persisting in its position even when it should be nigh impossible, and Geralt thinks of Posada, of the young, bright-eyed bard who’d taken one look at him and decided to follow him around for decades with unwavering love and devotion. 

The memory is tinged with a bittersweet nostalgia, but as Geralt grazes his fingers over the small flower once more, he realises that for the first time, there isn’t a heavy grief that comes crashing down alongside the memory, so long ago. 

The next day, before leaving the room, Geralt takes one last look at the buttercup, small and innocuous. He strokes its petals as gently as he can, squeezing his eyes shut for a brief moment, before heaving himself upright. 

The bright yellow lingers in his mind long after he’s left the inn.

Colour seeps gradually back into his days. Geralt is still going through the motions, grief still numbing his heart, but he’s a bit more present, a bit more grounded as heads from town to town, from contract to contract.

A few weeks later, Geralt is fighting a griffin in the middle of a field. It’s just another hunt as usual, nothing out of the ordinary as he lunges in to slash at its legs before leaping out of range of its talons. He delivers the killing blow with a hard strike to its neck, and it falls to the ground, lifeless.

All his hunts go like this, nowadays. Methodical, efficient as Geralt falls back on muscle memory, letting his body take over. Every contract is the same to him, nothing more than what he must do on the Path. There is no one for him to protect, no one furiously scribbling down the details of the fight, and there is a conspicuous, aching absence behind him as he kneels, unsheathing a knife to gather the body parts he needs. 

But when Geralt turns his eyes onto the griffin, knife at the ready, he almost falls back in shock. A cluster of bluebells is blooming in the ground next to the griffin’s head, the pale blue stark against its dark mane. 

The downturned heads of the bluebells sway slightly in the breeze, so fragile and harmless next to the fallen body of the griffin, and Geralt blinks and stares. 

He’s sure that they hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Warily, Geralt grasps his still medallion and looks around, expecting trouble, but his medallion is still, and his senses pick up nothing. Getting to his feet, he slowly scans every part of the field, straining his ears for any sound, taking a deep inhale to pick out the sour scent of a threat - but there’s nothing.

He looks back at the bluebells, assessing. Is it his imagination, or are there more of them than before? Reaching out tentatively, despite his witcher-honed preservation instincts screaming not to, he touches a finger to a single petal.

Nothing happens.

Perhaps it’s nothing but harmless magic, latent in the area. Reassured, Geralt crouches back down and starts gathering griffin parts, and when he leaves, the bluebells seem to have multiplied, a small field surrounding the area where Geralt had been kneeling.

He should investigate further, but something makes him pause, makes him think that perhaps these flowers are nothing more than harmless. He recalls the buttercup at the inn, growing in an impossible place, but ultimately not dangerous.

Geralt decides to let it go. There’s nothing to be found in pursuing it anyway, and the flowers are beautiful, so why not?

But as he starts the trek back to town, he finds himself pondering the bluebells. Their colour, a gorgeous pale blue that’s _so close_ but not quite the same, and Geralt has to stop walking for a moment as memories of bright blue eyes assault his mind.

Jaskier smiling at him, eyes soft. Jaskier yelling at some prejudiced townspeople, eyes alight with righteous anger. Jaskier looking at him, eyes tender as he leans in. Jaskier laughing, head thrown back, eyes sparkling with mirth. 

It hurts, now, to look at certain shades of blue. Geralt can’t quite look at the colour blue the same way anymore. There are times when the sky is hard to look at, or when he sees a colour that’s a _bit too close_ flash past in the market, or when a jolt runs through him when he meets someone’s eyes with a shade that’s not quite right.

Every time such incidents happen, Geralt’s memories of Jaskier are clear enough that he knows that none of them are exactly the colour of Jaskier’s eyes, but when he tries to recall the exact shade of his eyes, he draws a blank - he _knows_ that they aren’t the right colour, but _he can’t remember the right colour_ , and -

And it _terrifies_ him, freezes him in place, as he realises that the memory of the exact colour of Jaskier’s eyes is fading, and he clutches at it with desperate hands, unwilling to let go of the blue that he’s come to love, but it’s futile. The memory of Jaskier’s eyes has become more and more blurred as time marches on, only manifesting itself when there's a shade of blue that’s just _too close_ , and an ache opens up within Geralt at the thought that one day, it may disappear entirely.

Reaching out blindly, Geralt braces himself against the nearest tree at the wave of anguish that rushes over him at the thought that he may one day completely forget the dazzling colour of Jaskier’s eyes, and he digs his fingers into the rough bark, squeezing his eyes shut at the pressure that threatens to build behind them.

 _No_.

He cannot forget those blue eyes. 

And yet.

The memory of bright cornflower blue is fading, retreating into the depths of his mind, the image becoming more and more blurred even as Geralt tries frantically to cling on to the memory. He can’t let himself forget Jaskier’s eyes. He _can’t_. 

Something soft brushes past his fingers, a tender touch that reminds him of Jaskier, and Geralt opens his eyes.

A cornflower has bloomed from the bark of the tree, its petals nudging past his fingers as it sprouts from the trunk, hanging on by a thin stem, so fragile underneath his hands. A burst of bright, bright blue. 

It’s the exact shade of Jaskier’s eyes.

Blue, brighter than the sun, radiating life and energy as Jaskier beams at Geralt, eyes shining with happiness. Blue, soft as silk, filled with concern as Jaskier’s hands flutter over Geralt, checking for injuries after a hunt. Blue, gentle with love as Jaskier grasps Geralt’s face in his hands, leaning in to press a feather-soft kiss to his mouth.

Blue, blue, blue.

Wonderingly, Geralt brushes his fingers over the small petals, unable to take his eyes off the blooming flower. The colour - gods, the colour - awakens something within him, an yearning ache that longs for the memory of this beautiful shade. 

Geralt wants to commit this colour to memory. He doesn’t want to forget it ever again. 

His fingers twitch slightly around the delicate stem of the cornflower. He shouldn’t take it. It is a flower, small and sweet, growing from the trunk of a tree, and it will wither and die if he takes it.

But the colour - Geralt hasn’t seen anything like it in a long time, and he’s determined to hold onto the memory of this exact shade for the rest of his long life, so he pinches his fingers around the stem and gently, oh so gently, plucks it from the bark of the tree. For a moment, he gazes at it, committing its shade to memory, before putting it in his pocket and moving on.

The cornflower doesn’t wilt after a day. Nor does it wilt after a week, or two, or even after a month, when snow has started to fall and Geralt is on his way to Kaer Morhen. All around him, plants have ceased growing, withering and dying as the deadly cold smothers them, but the cornflower remains as vibrant as the day he’d plucked it from the tree, bright and blue and beautiful.

Every night, whether he’s settled in an inn or camped deep within the woods, Geralt takes the flower out of its customary place in his pocket, careful not to crush its delicate petals. He cradles it in his palm, taking in the shape and the light blue of its petals, and he thinks about Jaskier.

The blue of Jaskier’s eyes is crystallised in his memory, now, and looking at the cornflower nestled in his hands, he vows never to forget it.

He heads up to Kaer Morhen for the winter, the first time since Jaskier’s death. His brothers and Vesemir greet him with sorrowful eyes, and the keep is heavy with sadness. Vesemir clasps his arm for a bit longer than usual, the lines on his face deep with loss. Eskel’s hug is tighter than ever before, a faint tremor running through his body as he crushes Geralt in a shaky embrace. Lambert awkwardly pats him on the back, his movements subdued as he greets Geralt without a single snarky comment. 

They’re mourning, too. Jaskier had also been their friend, the only human to truly embrace witchers without fear, and they, alongside Geralt, feel his loss keenly. This winter will be a somber one, the cold stone walls of the keep pressing down on them in the absence of the light and music that Jaskier had always brought.

Geralt reaches into his pocket, letting his fingers lightly graze the cornflower. It’s been a month and the flower is still vibrant with life, but Kaer Morhen is high up in the mountains, where plants struggle to grow, and Geralt prays that whatever peculiar magic has kept the plant alive all this time will keep it alive through the harsh winter. 

Kaer Morhen is familiar, but after several winters of Jaskier filling the halls with laughter and song, the emptiness of the keep feels oppressive, and though Geralt has his flower to keep him company, there is a hollow void in Kaer Morhen. 

Geralt feels it. So do Vesemir and his brothers. The winter cold seems all the more harsh without the bubble of Jaskier’s warmth, and Geralt prepares himself for a dark, gloomy winter.

He wonders whether laughter will ever fill the halls of Kaer Morhen again. 

A week after Geralt’s arrival, something breaks through the dreary shadow that has settled over Kaer Morhen. 

Frost is creeping through the bare landscape, the bitter winds and biting cold preventing all but the most stubborn plants from growing, so when flowers start growing out of cracks in the walls, all of them are understandably shocked.

“This is impossible,” Vesemir grumbles, frowning as he inspects the sunflower that has made its home in the kitchen. “I can’t detect any trace of chaos in any of these blasted flowers. Somehow, they keep growing.”

“You always said we need to redecorate,” Lambert drawls. He leans against the wall, inspecting a dagger, but his eyes are keen as they scan the flowers jutting out at various points around the keep. “Shouldn’t you be grateful?”

“This can only be done by magic, though,” Eskel remarks thoughtfully, and runs a hand over the sunflower. It bends under his touch, springing back once he draws his hand back. “Has someone cursed, or perhaps blessed, the keep?”

Geralt thinks of the stubborn buttercup pushing up through the inn’s wooden floors, and the pretty bluebells clustering around the dead griffin. He thinks of the cornflower in his pocket, still intact after weeks of travel, as blue as the day he’d plucked it, as blue as Jaskier’s eyes.

Vesemir and Eskel continue debating about the cause of the flowers, Lambert interjecting with a snide comment every now and then, but Geralt tunes them out as he fixes his gaze on the sunflower, its yellow head turned towards the light spilling in from the nearest window, yearning for the sun.

It’s a bright spot within the rigid walls of Kaer Morhen, a blaze of warmth in the midst of harsh, wintry cold. It’s a spark of hope that pierces through the grief in their hearts, bringing life to the dullness of the keep, and the air almost seems lighter as various floral scents waft through the walls.

“Geralt!” Geralt snaps his gaze from the sunflower, twisting to face Vesemir with a raised eyebrow. 

“What?”

Vesemir sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I _said_ , have you encountered anything like this on your travels? This seems harmless, but I’d just like to make sure.”

The buttercup. The bluebells. The cornflower. 

“No,” Geralt grunts. He doesn’t make a habit of lying to Vesemir, but - something tells him to keep this secret. 

It’s fine. The flowers haven’t done anything other than look pretty, after all.

(They’re a reminder of his grief. They’re a reminder of Jaskier, who Geralt had lost.)

That night, Geralt goes to sleep with a single daisy growing near his bed. The next morning, he is woken up by the smell of sweet jasmine, and he blinks his eyes open to his walls, filled with colour and life, and -

Geralt heads out of the keep. There is nowhere within Kaer Morhen where he can escape the scent of flowers, and he can’t help but be reminded of what he’s lost. It’s an assault of vivid colour and liveliness, too close to Jaskier’s own boundless energy; the floral scents are pleasant, but dredge up memories of soaps and bathing and chamomile, and Geralt needs to _get out_.

Once he exits, his jaw drops open. 

Flowering vines weave their way around Kaer Morhen, colourful flowers of all species filling the cracks and gaps. Snow falls around the keep, but the flowers persist, unbothered by the deadly cold as they continue to bloom. The imposing stone fortress, previously cold and bare, is now vibrant and bursting with life as flowers wind their ways around the walls, and for the first time ever, Kaer Morhen looks welcoming.

Geralt takes in the scene before him for another moment, the pinks and blues and yellows, and he thinks of Jaskier, colourful both inside and out. He thinks of the impressive range Jaskier’s outfits, spanning the spectrum of a rainbow. 

The dark blue of delphiniums, where they first met in Posada, when Jaskier had been so young and eager. 

The gold of sunflowers, during the banquet in Cintra, Jaskier prancing around the hall with endless vivacity. 

The light blue of cornflowers, a prelude to the disaster in Rinde, a blue that matched Jaskier’s eyes, a blue that quickly became stained crimson as blood dribbled from his mouth. 

The red of poppies as they scaled the Dragon Mountains, ending with the heavy scent of sadness and heartbreak.

Jaskier had brought so much _colour_ into Geralt’s life, and Geralt had never truly acknowledged it until Jaskier was gone, until his life fell into shades of black and grey. Now, he gazes at the looming fortress, its imposing presence tempered by the wild beauty of the flowers twining through its walls, and wonders if he will ever regain colour in his life.

 _Jaskier would have loved this_.

Forcing back the tears that threaten to rise, Geralt turns away from Kaer Morhen, frost crunching under his boots as he wanders the surrounding area aimlessly. The ground is hard with frost and utterly bare, save for the occasional stubborn weed poking through the ice. 

Finally, Geralt emerges in a clearing, familiar from his childhood, when he and Eskel had found it as an escape from their brutal training. They had arranged several large rocks in such a way that they were able to sit on them, and the fond memory is a slight reprieve from his grief as he brushes some snow off one of the ‘chairs’.

Once he’s sat down, Geralt brings his knees to his chest and lowers his head, letting the tears spill out, warm against his cold cheeks. What is happening to him? Why are flowers sprouting wherever he goes, cruel reminders of how he had lost the person so impossibly dear to his heart?

The flowers have brought back clarity to Geralt’s life, but they make the pain of loss so much more acute. Their bright colours are a constant reminder of Jaskier’s brilliant personality, of his optimism and laughter. The blooming of the flowers mirror Jaskier’s sheer liveliness, how he danced through life with joy and laughter. The aroma that drifts from the flowers tug at Geralt’s fondest memories, at the memories of Jaskier’s familiar perfume, of Jaskier bathing him with gentle hands, of Jaskier humming as he wove flowers into Geralt’s hair.

It _hurts_.

It hurts to remember how much he has lost.

It hurts to remember that he will never have Jaskier by his side again.

The scent of roses hits his nose, an impossible smell in the middle of winter. When Geralt lifts his head, wiping the moisture from his eyes, he’s almost unsurprised to see that flowers have bloomed around the clearing, with a patch of buttercups right at his feet, and he lets out a choked cry.

Why does this keep happening to him?

A part of Geralt longs to crush the buttercups under the heel of his boot, to uproot all the flowers in the clearing. Perhaps it would clear his mind of the unending grief, and the loss of Jaskier would no longer plague his thoughts. But he can’t bring himself to do it, can’t bring himself to move, as he stares, frozen at the spread of bright yellow.

A warm breeze drifts through the clearing, an impossibility in the middle of winter. The buttercups sway merrily in the breeze, and a soft wind whistles by Geralt, gently caressing his cheek and tousling his hair. It seems to wrap around him for a moment, curling around his body, and he watches as a pile of leaves nearby rises in a swirl in a way that simply can’t be natural.

Geralt should be wary, drawing his sword in anticipation of danger, but he doesn’t. He feels _safe_ as the gentle breeze brushes past him, bringing with it a soft whisper. 

_Geralt_ , he thinks he hears, and Geralt shakes his head violently. How ridiculous he is, to hear his own name on the wind - it is wind, nothing more.

(There has only ever been one person who said his name that way. _Ger-alt_ , caressing the syllables gently, lovingly. _Geralt_ , like the name is worth saying, over and over, like he is precious, like he is loved. _Geralt, Geralt, Geralt._ )

“No,” Geralt hisses, clenching his hands so tightly that his nails bite into his palms. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the absurd thought that he had heard his name on the wind. How utterly ridiculous.

The wind dies down with something like a soft exhale, and Geralt tries not to notice that as the wind drops, the flowers in the clearing droop just the slightest bit, losing a hint of the vibrance, a bit of life leaching out of them. With the warm breeze gone, frigid cold descends back over the clearing, and a small tremor runs through his body.

Geralt gets up. The flowers, the wind - it’s all too much. He leaves the clearing, tightening his jaw as he feels the buttercups being crushed under his feet, and strides determinedly back to Kaer Morhen, not looking back.

That night, surrounded by whispers of hyacinths and gardenias and honeysuckle, their scents entering his nose with every breath, Geralt thinks of slowing, laboured breathing. He thinks of cupped hands, capturing Jaskier’s last breath, and entrapping it into the earth. He thinks of flowers blooming at his tears, and the small, stubborn buttercup, the swaying bluebells, the lone, persistent cornflower, the flowers at Kaer Morhen. 

He thinks of a soft, whispered _Geralt_ being carried on the wind. 

Geralt walks to his desk and gently picks up the cornflower, turning it around in his hands. Time has not changed it, has not subjected it to death and decay - it’s untouched by time, the bright blue emblazoned in Geralt’s mind.

He lifts his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the soft petals, and he wonders.

The winter passes by. Kaer Morhen has been made much livelier with its new additions, and the liveliness is infectious, and Geralt and his brothers pass the winter feeling far lighter than before, even with the loss of Jaskier hanging over them. Flowers continue to grow around the keep, and when spring approaches, even more flowers burst into colourful bloom, not leaving an inch of the keep untouched.

When Geralt leaves Kaer Morhen, a lightness in his steps that hadn’t been there before, the world is bright with colour.

Flowers follow Geralt everywhere. They spring out of the ground after monster hunts, a point of brightness in the dark, gory reality of witcher business. Sometimes, when he camps in the forest, he wakes up to several species of flowers blooming around him, their scents wafting through the air, clear and sweet. Small, stubborn flowers emerge from nooks and crannies when he is so deep in civilisation that nature is blocked away. 

Each time, a small part of Geralt repairs itself, and it almost seems as if something is slotting back into place. The hollowness within his chest, which had made itself a home inside Geralt since Jaskier’s death, starts to recede, bit by bit, replaced by small figments of warmth and vitality that the flowers bring.

He still doesn’t quite know why this is happening. Yennefer shrugs when he asks her, looking as perplexed as he feels, a hint of grief in her eyes.

“I wanted to capture his essence, I suppose,” she answers, pursing her lips slightly. “I don’t know what I did - it was all instinct. Something - called to me.” Her voice goes soft and mournful. “I think I wanted you to have something to remember him by.”

Geralt hums in response, and watches Yennefer’s eyes widen as a few sprigs of lilac push through the ground at her feet, their stems bending in such a way that they seem to be caressing Yennefer’s skirts.

“Oh,” she says, bending down to pluck one. She examines it, turning it back and forth with elegant hands, before tucking it away somewhere in the layers of her skirts, a nonchalant action that doesn’t fool Geralt - he knows Yennefer well enough to know that she will keep it, and treasure it.

“Take care, Geralt,” she bids as she presses a soft kiss to his cheek, and steps through a portal. 

Gradually, the flowers become less of a painful reminder of who had lost, but more of a stimulus for Geralt to think fondly of his memories with Jaskier, of all the tender moments they’d shared, of the love that they had for each other.

A few daisies sprout next to his bedroll, and Geralt remembers Jaskier chattering away as he wove a flower crown with deft fingers, placing the wreath of daisies on Geralt’s head with a proud smile. Geralt had been helpless against the force of that smile, and he had been unable to stop himself from leaning in to taste that smile on Jaskier’s lips.

A field of lavender blooms around the corpses of a nest of drowners, their soothing aroma overpowering the stench of drowner corpses, and Geralt feels Jaskier’s fingers in his hair, kneading his scalp as Jaskier murmured about his day in low tones. The scent of lavender soap had filled the room, calming Geralt’s senses, and coupled with Jaskier’s soft tones and clever fingers, Geralt had been lulled to sleep in the tub.

A single red rose grows by the river where Geralt is resting with Roach, and Geralt thinks of Jaskier’s fond smile when Geralt had handed him a rose, cheeks burning.

“This is for you,” Geralt had mumbled, ducking his head as he thrust the rose at Jaskier.

Jaskier had given him a look so tender that it made Geralt weak in the knees, and he’d taken the rose from Geralt, fingers brushing, tucking it behind his ear as he tugged Geralt closer to him.

Jaskier had cradled Geralt’s face with both hands and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, my dear witcher,” he had whispered, voice warm. “I love you too, you know.”

Every time a flower appears, Geralt lets himself linger on his memories of Jaskier, accumulated over decades of travelling together, and though the ache of missing Jaskier never disappears, it lessens over time as Geralt learns to look back on their past with love and fondness rather than pain and grief.

He keeps the cornflower in his pocket, still. As time passes, he takes it out less and less - every day, every two days, every five days, every week. It never loses its vibrance, no less blue than the day he’d taken it, but Geralt doesn’t need it as much, now. Jaskier’s eyes will forever be in his memory, and though the memory of them always elicits a small pang of pain, Geralt now looks at the colour blue feeling endlessly grateful for the time he had spent with Jaskier, for the opportunity to have spent decades with the man who had brought colour into his lie.

* * *

Flowers are a sign of birth and life. In this way, they remind Geralt of Jaskier, of how life had seemed to pour from him, utterly vibrant, standing out against the death and darkness that surrounded him. 

But they are also a sign of rebirth, their seeds creating new life as their old one withers. 

Flowers are a sign of life. This, Geralt knows.

Flowers are a sign of rebirth. This, Geralt has forgotten about.

* * *

Geralt is in Kerack when something draws him in the direction of the coast, an inexplicable urge that he ends up following, because it’s not like there’s anything better for him to do anyway. An invisible hand gently guides him along the Path, the air growing heavier with humidity and the smell of salt growing stronger as he travels. 

_We could head to the coast._

It guides him through towns and villages, through forests and along beaches, and along the way, Geralt lets himself enjoy the wonders of the coast, the delicacies of the food there and the crashing of waves along the beach, the sparkling ocean stretching endlessly into the distance until it meets the clear blue sky.

_Get away for a while._

The pull grows stronger each day. Maybe he should fight it - he is a witcher, after all, and this feeling is decidedly not natural. Perhaps it’s stupid, to go along with the invisible pull, but as the pull grows stronger, flowers appear more and more frequently, brighter and brighter each time, and Geralt thinks, why not?

_Life is too short._

A week later, Geralt emerges from a forest and is met with an endless field of flowers. No - it’s not just a field flowers, he realises. It’s an impossible scene, miles and miles of flowers stretching across the beach before him, waves lapping at the stems of daffodils and carnations and dahlias, flowers of all sizes and colours blooming from the sand.

_Do what pleases you, while you can._

The pull within him subsides, replaced by a wash of peace, and Geralt’s shoulders loosen, an invisible tension disappearing. There’s a dark figure at the far end of the beach, back turned to Geralt, wrapped in a soft embrace by waves upon waves of buttercups and daisies and bluebells, and Geralt’s legs start moving, weaving through the field of endless flowers as he makes his way towards the figure.

Geralt’s heart beats steadily in his chest, a slow thump, thump, thump. The sea breeze blows past his face, tossing back his hair, and the scent of brine mingles with the sweet, floral scents that waft from the field. Flower stems brush his legs as he passes, their blooming heads turning towards him.

As he gets closer, he hears the gentle thrum of music, the melodious tones of a lute, harmonising with a soft, sweet voice, a voice so familiar to Geralt that his knees almost buckle, but he keeps walking. The sea breeze whips past him, and tears sting his eyes as he speeds up, the music growing louder and clearer.

Geralt is so close to the figure that he can make out the lines of his body, achingly familiar from years of careful exploration. He reaches into his pocket, grasping the cornflower, bright and blue. 

He doesn’t need it anymore. 

Geralt opens his hand, discarding it to the side. It flutters down to the ground, but Geralt takes no heed of it as he breaks into a run, his lips turning up in a hopeful smile. 

_We could head to the coast._

The figure turns around, and Geralt is surrounded by blue, brighter than the sea and sky, shining with joy and happiness and _life_.

He is home.

**Author's Note:**

> it ended hopefully?? it's,,, not too sad? i left it as an open ending so feel free to interpret it however you want:) if the development of this seems rushed it's because i was writing this under a time crunch lol, and i apologise for how rushed it is. 
> 
> ciri was originally going to be involved but i didn't have time to add her in (which would have resulted in MUCH MORE angst) so yeah skdjfh she's not there
> 
> come find me on tumblr on my [witcher sideblog @jaskicr](https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/)!


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